Rumor Has It
by Isedy
Summary: Vanya Hargreeves was normal. A strange, flowing consciousness of Vanya's development into Seven and her role in the Apocalypse. [Based on the Netflix Adaptation and not the Comics].


Disclaimer: I do not own the Netflix Adaptation of The Umbrella Academy, or the Comics.

Status: Complete.

Summary: Vanya Hargreeves was normal. [A strange, flowing consciousness of Vanya's development into Seven and her role in the Apocalypse].

* * *

Vanya Hargreeves was normal. The sky was blue, the grass was green, Vanya Hargreeves was normal; this was the way it was, that was the way it would always be.

She wasn't like Number Three, Allison, who was as pretty as she was attention-privy; dark skin, big calf-brown eyes, a mouth that was as sweet as it was a liar. Number Three, Allison, who merely smiled and had Luther's attention at the drop of a hat.

She wasn't like Number Five either. Number Five, who grinned at her, smiling with his eyes, but whose attention remained on their father and the rest of their prodigious siblings. (Adopted Siblings). Who looked at her as if she were remotely human and yet…not.

If she had been part of the group, Vanya liked to think that she would have been Five's partner in crime. Despite their varied cries of denial, her siblings each had their confidant, their closest allies—their lifelines.

Diego was easy. He was seeking attention, but not the kind her other siblings usually wanted from her father; no, Diego wanted affection and love and…softness. Diego's partner, confidant, was mother. He loved her like no other despite the flinches he made when father set his eyes on him, and she, well, she was the sun to him.

Luther and Allison (One and Three and wasn't it just _strange_ that odd numbers found each other so easily?) had each other; so embroiled and wrapped up in their affections that even an attempt at breaking it would result in bitter heartbreak, resentment…fear.

Klaus. Klaus had been one of the rather favored ones…before he started using. Despite his proclivity for dramatics, Vanya knew he wasn't cruel. No, Klaus wasn't ever cruel. He was merely…a child. A sad, aching child, with a wound that wouldn't ever heal—not since he'd been able to set eyes on the dead neighbor that supposedly wandered into the hall.

Klaus's partner, his confidant, had been Ben.

Vanya didn't like to talk about Ben.

His death felt like an aching, burrowing hole, and yet there wasn't anyone to _talk to_—

Five. Five was supposed to be…hers. Except, well, he wasn't. He was father's. Father's…pet toy. Vanya remembered how he looked at father; like a challenge. An obstacle to be overcome. A means to the end. A way of survival. She liked to think he didn't look at her like that, but well, Vanya was as observatory as she was quiet and…

Five was pragmatically cruel; a sort of cold that seeped into your bones and yet, you understood why it was there—why it was necessary.

There wasn't ever anything soft about Five, nothing except his cunning.

When she was little, she remembered porridge. She remembered sitting at a table, silent, quiet, never speaking…and porridge. Sitting there, in front of her, waiting. Perhaps, that was the first sign of rebellion. Staring down at the porridge, boring a hole into it, _refusing_ to eat it, to touch it, until it was _dealt with._

Porridge; cold, wet, soggy. Kind of like her when she cried—a mix of goo and mush and a lack of _substance._

(_Ordinary, Vanya, you are ordinary—I heard a rumor…)_

She didn't _really_ care that the nannies had gone splat, splat, splat. You see, when they went _splat, _Father looked at her different. Hemmed and hawed and _looked._ Vanya liked being looked at. Liked to remind people that she _was there had always been there she mattered—_

It was different with Grace.

Grace (or Mom, was it? She wasn't ever sure.) hadn't gone _splat._ Not like she should have. Her neck had gone _crack_ and she'd heard the glass shatter against her body as it had gone flying, just like the rest, except unlike them…Grace stood up.

She'd walked, and walked, and walked, until her head was set on right and her eyes were glowing with a warmth Vanya had never seen.

The clink of the spoon in her bowl had told her that Grace wasn't Father (desperate, worrying, careful, cautious, fearful father) and she didn't look how he looked; cold, calculating, a tinge of cruel fear. No, Grace looked at Vanya with an empty sort of warmth that made her feel like she was reaching for something and no matter how many times she touched it, it slipped through her fingers.

(She supposed she hated Diego for that too, because Mother looked at her like she was about to implode and yet, and yet, and yet, there lay a sort of _warmth _in her gaze when she looked at her Diego, her little boy, that wasn't quite _there_ when she looked at Vanya and she _hatedhatedhatedher—_)

(_I heard a rumor…you're ordinary, Vanya, ordinaryordinary—)_

Vanya was normal after that.

Utterly ordinary.

The medicine, it helped. She couldn't _quite_ remember how she'd started taking it…Pogo looked at her strange the first few times, but soon he learned to smooth out his expression so that only his eyes lingered on her hands as she lifted the little pill to her mouth and slipped it between thin lips.

Pogo looked at her like she was an animal stuck in a cage, and she tried, she tried _so hard_ to stop herself from flinching at it, but she could never quite forget how it looked—probing, deep, touching unseen things that lay within her.

There were times when she spoke, and people wouldn't listen, and Vanya would have to remind herself to remain calm because soon they would, they would, they would—

She'd told Ben to be careful, and he'd grinned at her, kind of pityingly, like a wounded dog whining for help, and that was the last time she saw his smiling face.

Five had left long before Ben, or the others, but Five wasn't like Ben because Ben had been _kind _despite his cruelty. Vanya waited for him. Waited for Five, who was supposed to look at her like she was resembling a human being; left him sandwiches in the hours of dark, marshmallow fluff, peanut butter, and the lights.

Five wasn't missed, not like Ben.

(Vanya didn't think she'd forgive the rest of them for that transgression…Five had been _hers_ in a twisted, skewed sort of way.)

Sometimes, sometimes, she thought of Klaus's horror and his disgust and his _pain_ and she thought _maybe, maybe_ he'll talk to me.

Klaus never came, but his drugs did and soon after that…Klaus left.

With Klaus gone, the house was empty, and father was looking thinner despite the fact that no one truly looked at him anymore, not _really._ (Vanya saw, Vanya always _saw_ but no one listened…)

Klaus was gone first. And then, Allison left, and Luther got _angry_ and vindictive and he yelled louder, was stronger, crueler, vicious, and Diego left not soon afterwards. Diego said bye to Mother, leaving her with a kiss on the cheek, a sad expression and echoing footsteps, despite the fact that Vanya was in the same room.

Grace-Mother tilted her head.

Something inside her broke that day; Vanya saw it. She knew it.

Then again, Diego was her baby, and the rest were Father's children.

When Vanya left, there was no one to say goodbye to. Luther was on a mission, saving the world single-handedly, anger in his stride, righteous contempt in his gaze. Father was in his study, and she thought of saying goodbye, for a single, straining moment, but she remembered how he didn't look up at them even when they'd come to say goodnight. Diego had left. Klaus was strung-out, high out of his mind, somewhere she couldn't reach. Allison was lying, lying, lying, like she'd always been, only this time it was on a television screen. Ben was dead. Five was gone.

Grace-Mother was stitching upstairs.

Pogo was the one that caught her with her tiny suitcase, violin over her shoulder, hair in her eyes, as she was reaching for the door-handle.

She remembered it a bit like this:

Where are you off to, Miss Vanya?

…I found an advertisement. Near a theater. I'm going to play the violin.

He'd hesitated, and then nodded to her.

I suppose it is time for you to leave the nest as well, Miss Vanya.

The end had been a closed door, a snick of the lock, and the rain on her hair as she trod down the front steps.

Her apartment was big and roomy and…empty. It was empty like the manor-house, empty like it had been after Ben's death and Vanya filled it with her music. The neighbors complained at first, knocked on her doors, and she promised to be more careful, more attentive…_more everything_ about the sound.

(Always _moremoremoremoremore—)_

(_And yet, I heard a rumor…you're ordinary Vanya, so very, very ordinary…)_

She wrote the book on a whim. A stupid, ridiculous whim.

They called her after that, each one, bitter and resentful and _furious_ and—

She wasn't _quite_ sorry. They hated her. They hated her so _much_, but at least this time they hated her as _Vanya-who-had-written-that-book_ instead of _Vanya-their-quite-not-quite-special-sister._ They hated her as a person, and somehow, this filled, if only a little, the aching, pulsing void inside of her.

(_How could you, Vanya, how could you write this fucking bullshit—Diego, I—I don't ever want to see you again—)_

They hated her and soon the warmth it had filled disappeared.

_(Vanya…s'that you…oh! I called you…I think…not sureeeee…it's your brother! Klaus! I'm…I jus' wanted to say…aw, no, I've still got time left you moron—Klaus, listen—gotta go…lil' sis…)_

Sometimes, Vanya hated herself for writing it. Sometimes, she played the violin so hard her fingers bled, and her ears rang, and her mouth was dry but—

_(Vanya. I can't believe you wrote this. My publisher's is having a goddamn nightmare trying to fix the damage you've done and I…how could you be so irresponsible…I'm trying to build a life here, sister—Allison, if you just knew that I never meant anything by it—so, then, why'd you write it? If you didn't mean it, why'd you write that stuff about us?)_

—It never filled anything inside her.

Father died, and her world came crashing down. Everything was suddenly vivid, playing over and over in rich, brilliant color and they were _looking at her_—even if it was cruelly, even if it was viciously. Well, not all of them. Not all the time. But Vanya was used to that sort of gaze—uncaring, half-bored, half-bitter—and she was glad to have it nonetheless.

She supposed it was doomed to failure, because Five came back in a dazzling show of color and effigy and showmanship and she was fading again.

Five did come to her, but he went to them afterwards, and Vanya had only her violin and her hands and her empty home and—

Leonard Peabody.

Leonard with the nice brown eyes, and the smiling mouth with the soft grooves at the edges. Leonard who had warm hands, who touched her reverently, softly, tenderly, and made something inside her flutter like a tentatively flying butterfly.

Leonard who filled the void. Slotted right into the creaking, shrieking numbness inside of her, aching to be set free. Leonard made her feel…alive. Like she was superman, finally special, finally worthy, finally _seen. _

Allison came next. Allison who only looked to Luther, only ever looked to Luther, but who now was looking at her with creased eyebrows as if she couldn't quite explain what she was seeing.

Allison who tried to stop her from seeing Leonard, the only one who'd ever made her _feel_. Allison, the only one of their siblings who talked to her after the wake, of her own free will. (Five was an exception, but then again, Five was always an exception and the family, world, _universe_ knew it).

Allison who gurgled when Vanya slit the bow across her throat. Whose calf-brown eyes were wide in panic and shock and _fear _when her trembling hands reached up, up, up, to clutch at the streaming rivulets of blood that soaked her white shirt.

_(I heard a rumor…you're ordinary—not anymore. Not ever.)_

She thought she heard a chuckle, a soft trickle of manic laughter, and then she was enveloped in _Leonard_, Leonard who would fix it, make it go all away if only she just _leaned into him. _He washed her blood from her hands, and she spoke nonsense, and for the first time someone heard, listened, but not quite how she wanted.

Leonard's promises were soft and silky, like his brown eyes, or at this point, eye, but they were warm. Vanya need that warmth—the warmth of affection, the kind she'd looked for, again, and again, and again.

There was something building inside her. Something that moved with her anger, something that melded with her fear and bitterness and rage and—_Allison I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please let me explain, let me explain—_

She killed Leonard with the feelings, and the rage and the anger, and the _betrayal_ and she wasn't sorry. Vanya wasn't ever quite sorry for the nannies. She wasn't sorry for Leonard now. Leonard who lied. Leonard who was _a sniveling, useless, manipulating COWARD—_

(_You were never ordinary—you are like a god—never ordinary—say it, say it, say it—no, Vanya, no not to __**me**__—)_

She was numb as she walked to the manor. The feelings were whirling, burning, colliding inside of her like a swelling atom bomb, but Vanya knew, knew, knew, she had to see _Allison_, if only to make her understand, make her _know_ that Vanya never meant, Vanya _never meant to—_

Kill her.

Luther breathes hope into her. One of the only times. His eyes are soft and sad and something else lingers in them, behind the protectiveness and ferocity at Allison's weakness. His arms are warm and strong and kind as he hugs her.

She sobs and sobs and sobs because it feels so _good, so, so good_ to lean on her brother, her sort-of friend, and _cry_ because at least this person loves her, even a little and—

Vanya starts to choke when she realizes the air is getting thinner in Luther's arms. Number One's arms. There is a soft sort of panic that grips her when she realizes her mistake. She stepped into One's arms and he loved Allison. He loved Allison. Vanya tried to kill Allison.

One doesn't give second chances. Not now. Not ever. Not to anyone but Allison.

Vanya has never been Allison.

When she wakes in the room, she thinks she's dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or _insane._

And then she sees them. Outside. Her three adopted siblings. One, Two, Four. They're standing there. _Looking at her._ Except it's not how Vanya wanted. _(It's never how she wants)_. They're looking at her now, and there is a tinge of shock, of madness, of fear and anger in their eyes.

One isn't sorry. He's not going to let her out.

She pounds against the glass anyways, and screams and howls, and _begs and pleads and begs—_

_("That's our sister in there— ")_

Please, she begs, and screams and sobs, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—

_("Even if you were right, that's __**Vanya—**__)_

I didn't mean to, she wants to tell them, but they aren't listening, they're never listening, never, never, never, and Vanya can't _handle that._

Allison is what breaks her. Then again, Allison has always been the one to break Vanya. When she was four, Seven heard a rumor, and Vanya was born, and Allison didn't, couldn't, look at her anymore. When she was eleven, she learned the violin well enough to play a whole song, and Allison told her to _get out_ with that high, screeching voice of hers, Luther and her springing apart as quickly as they came together.

When Vanya is an adult, Allison breaks her with her words, and then with Leonard, and then with love until Vanya—

Until Vanya breaks _her_.

Except, unlike Allison, Vanya's been saying sorry since she was four, and now, when it's her turn, when Allison sees her there, in the box, in her prison, her cage, when it's her time to shine…Allison says…does nothing.

Vanya screams and screams and screams until the thing inside her _breaks_.

Vanya Hargreeves is normal. The grass is green, the sky is blue, Vanya Hargreeves is normal.

But Seven is not.

Seven becomes Vanya, and Vanya Seven and now…now the world is their plaything.

The world isn't quite in focus when she breaks out of her cage, when the manor collapses around them and Seven rejoices at her freedom. Seven is Vanya is Seven is…_special._ Vanya is Seven is so special that her personalities flicker and burst and fizzle when she sets her eyes on Pogo.

Pogo who said goodbye to her, Vanya, albeit quietly. Pogo who looked at Vanya with pain in his eyes. Pogo, who despite everything, every single bit of leeway Vanya ever gave him, _falters_ when she asks him if he knew.

Miss Vanya…Miss Vanya…

His words are like Diego's daggers; curving to find the easiest pathway to her heart.

_You knew._

Vanya is Seven, except Seven isn't _Vanya_ and the world goes up in flames.

She doesn't remember the ride to the concert, only that her violin was wrapped tight in her fingers and she'd smiled at someone—she doesn't know who. She walked, more confident than she'd been in her whole life, and strode into the hall with a resolute, hardened face.

Seven isn't Vanya when she plays the violin. When she wraps the sound into energy and strings it along her body and mind, twirling it around her fingers so tightly she could _feel _it resonating around the room. She feels it growing, growing, growing and she smiles, (Vanya thinks it's Allison, but Seven knows it's not), and it feels like she's finally _being heard. _

The world ends when the shots go up and the men-and-women-in-masks storm the hall and her siblings burst into action, ever courageous, ever the heroes.

The world ends as she plays the music around her and fills herself with anger and rage and cold, hard, clarity, the kind that resonates like the clearest, purest musical note.

The world ends as she strings up her brothers like meat and watches them with a sort of dazed blankness that breaks their hearts. They're looking, looking, looking for Vanya, except _Vanya isn't here and Vanya is Seven but Seven isn't Vanya and—_they're too _late._

(They've always been too late.)

The world ends at the sound of a shot, and the light that beams out of her in a fell swoop, and her knees buckle, and someone cares enough to catch her.

…

The world ends when a group of adopted siblings hold their sister in their arms and debate about whether or not they can be saved. She is so small. So small and _lost._ Maybe they've got too much anger inside them. Too much hurt. But Vanya is so small and tiny and pale, and Allison can't really bear to let their sister go.

Luther picks her up, and Five hopes.

The world ends as Vanya crumbles and Seven begins.

* * *

In loving memory of the two-day binge I went on after finding The Umbrella Academy on Netflix.

This isn't about the comics! I've never read them, sorry.

Please enjoy :)


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